Out of the Ashes
by Boooyakasha
Summary: A dark time in Clint Bartons' past where the actions of one day will haunt his soul forever, no matter how much he denies his feelings. -from his p.o.v as a child-


**My own creation separate from any comic/movie references with only minor facts tied in. Hope you like it! Please leave a review!**

Brilliant yellow flame like tendrils were reaching up and out from the center blaze now, threatening to consume everything and anything in its path, its' reach towards the black, midnight sky resulting in loud crackling, snapping and popping noises as the rain pelt down upon it relentlessly.

It was as if a battle was waging.

But the battle had already been waged. There were no victors here, only a single survivor remained.

This single survivor stood beyond the blaze, the light casting a small shadow behind a young boy who appearing no older than seven years old.

In the dirt he sat, an eerie sight to behold as flames rose nearby and cast red and black shadows about his motionless and emotionless figure.

The boys' large, crystal blue eyes and mop of wet blonde hair were his only defining features, the rest of his form similar to that of any other seven year old boy around.

Upon further inspection you could say he was slightly small for his age which only made him look younger, the fact that he had been drenched to the bone and covered in clothes much to big for him adding to his fragile, tiny appearance and making him look that much more smaller. So _innocent_.

But appearances can be _deceiving_, we all know that.

Yet for some, those kind hearted few that still believe in miracles, in fate and in hope, the scene here was obviously a tragedy.

An _unintended_, _tragic _loss of life, that had left one small boy all alone among the burning bodies, traumatized beyond belief and waiting for the end.

Or so it seemed.

Police officers, fire fighters and paramedics had all been urgently summoned over to the corner of town where the fiery blaze had engulfed a travelling circus and was dangerously beginning to spread towards the forest of pines, all so dried and brittle from the summer heat wave.

The hoses had been brought out instantly and with the help of the rain, fire fighters had brought the blaze under control and ushered the grounds back into a somewhat calm and collected state.

But it had been too late, the damage had already been done.

Paramedics had quickly rushed the small boy out of the rain and into a nearby van assessing the charred denim fabrics covering his body and other minors cuts, bruises or burns.

But it was what was underneath that was important and by the look on his calm face any person could tell that he was broken inside.

No child could simply stare at burning flesh, that peeled and blistered itself back off the bones of the dead without showing any reaction and be considered mentally stable.

The lack of emotion playing out through his glassy eyes broke the hearts of many as the boy was passed to and fro until he was wrapped up in a warm blanket and set in the back of a police car on the way to supposed salvation.

Everyone had told him that they were sorry, that he would be okay now, that everything was going to be alright.

It was all he could do to restrain himself from lashing out, from screaming at them. Just to show no emotion, to hide all tears, to hide the tremors and the pain that he had buried was hard enough.

It was so hard to mask feelings in moments like this and yet he forced himself to. If he slipped up now, there would be consequences. If he revealed his true reasons for wanting to lash out, he would be very, very sorry.

He didn't blame them for the deaths of others, he didn't blame them for not saving his family or any other circus performers he'd known and grown up with.

He blamed them for putting the flames _out_.

_He _had started the fire, he had done it on purpose. He had _wanted _the destruction.

At the time it seemed to have been the only way to stop it all, the overwhelming pressures of a hellish life that was threatening to crush the life right out of him.

He was only seven and yet even he knew that a few more years of abuse, torment and bullying would crack him and instead of them destroying him, he would destroy himself.

He hadn't planned it. It was just a think on your feet moment. A do or die. He hadn't regretted his decision. No matter how much in hurt.

His family had never been a family to him. One drunk father, one stoned mother, one bully of a brother and all together it created a cage of hurt and despair. But they were still the only family he had…did have.

He had tried to accept his fate, to somehow understand his flaws, to improve, to appease the others, doing all that he could within his small limitations to meet the many expectations of others.

But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he fought, either way, he always lost the fight. And there was no one there to help him, ever.

It had begun with small bruises from weak punches and little cuts from littered glass but that had quickly developed into more violence which meant broken bones from hurling furniture and gaping wounds from broken bottles.

Each fight more intense than the last, each fight leaving him more broken, bloodied and beaten. The years wore on and by age seven, the boy could be considered a master of survival.

Had he not learnt to be quick or observe the talents and moves of his 'fellow' bullying performers, it would have been the end for him a long time ago. But he hadn't given up, hadn't let himself be beaten into oblivion, had _never _stopped fighting back.

And so when the clean up after a failed performance had demanded customers tickets back it had been just another excuse to drive his father to alcohol as was the usual. But this time he drank more than usual, until finally, he was left in a vicious whirlwind of hate and rage. To make things worse, he had a gun.

With a single click of the trigger, his father had erased his mother off the face of the earth and away from the land of the living.

She hadn't seen the signs, or even understood the weight of the situation, had hardly cared that he had waved it at her, threatened her again and again, dared to tear him an his older brother to pieces.

His mothers brains had been blown out across the dirt and grass within seconds. Gone. Forever.

But it hadn't ended there. Next on the list was his brother, but fortunately -or unfortunately-, his lack of aim at more than a few feet had missed him by miles.

Undeterred, he had been next, yet luckily, a step to the right and he was out of harms way…for now.

However, the misfire had lodged itself in a fuel canister standing on a stack of wooden crates only a few feet behind him his son, and gasoline had begun pouring out profusely onto the dry pines needles and dirt.

As the click of another round entered the revolver, he realized that this moment was do or die. He couldn't avoid bullets forever, he was skilled, agile, fast and one hell of a good marksman for such a young boy, but no one could outrun bullets.

And so he dipped into a fast crouch, pulling from his pocket the set of matches he'd been using to light his arrows in the earlier performance, struck one and threw it at the pooling gasoline.

The pine needles, grass, crates and all had gone up in a gush of heat and flame, forcing his father away to shield his face, automatically leading his hands protectively upwards.

With no time to waste, he punched his drunken killer of a father in the gut, forcing him to bend down before swiping the gun from his hand and taking off high speed in the opposite direction.

He never saw his father again, would never regret it either.

Scrambling into a run, he dodged past crates of fire and lit washing lines, scanning the area for his brother. He was nowhere to be seen.

He ran faster. Ran until he had reached the safe outskirts of the compound from where he could watch the flames continue to spread before collapsing on the wet grass, muscles straining and aching from lack of oxygen.

And spread the flames did, across the needles like a river of flame until suddenly they consumed a nearby tent.

Within seconds, several more tents were up in flames, their inhabitants having gone to sleep for the night only to wake to smothering smoke and flaming ceilings.

The faces of his tormentors quickly dashed from their tents aflame, though this time, they no longer held evil smiles of pleasure but of immense fear and pain as they tried to outrun their flames, others rolling in attempt to put themselves out.

But it was all in vain, for this put flames upon the floor which spread and engulfed more surfaces.

He had not intended their deaths but he did not help.

A battle of emotions and memories on which action to take had frozen the boy solid, until finally an unfamiliar feeling swelled in his chest that left tremors through his arms, a creased brow, eyes brimming with tears and jaw set. A feeling of revenge.

As fate had it, rain came down when the last screams died down and drenched the young boy sitting in the dirt.

No longer would he live in this world of torment.

No longer would he suffer the endless abuse.

No longer would he be outcast.

No longer would he have a place to call home…a group to call family…

He harshly wiped away his swollen eyes with the back of his small, muddied hands, refusing to let any tears spill and picked his broken body up off the sodden grass.

No. He would not be sorry for what he had caused. They had deserved it. They had to have deserved it. Surely he couldn't have deserved their torment and years of suffering.

He should have left this place behind _years _ago. It wouldn't have mattered that he was a minor, he would have fared much better had he taken a chance for a better life and left before this had happened. The worst part was knowing that he had had the opportunity so many times and yet he had not taken it. He had held onto hope. And it had cost him everything.

As he gazed unseeingly out through the back window of the moving vehicle at the black pines flying past, the female officer seated in the front disturbed his guilty train of thought.

"While we're driving back I'm going to contact local services and see if we can find you a place to rest or a relatives to stay at, so I'll just need your first and last name. Can you do that for me?"

The boy stared at her seriously for a second, considering her question but already knowing that there would be no relatives to call. Too tired to think of an excuse and seeing no harm in giving his identity, he gave up.

" My names Clint-" he offered in a small but confident voice, " Clint Barton."


End file.
